Close Leaning on its crook

Close Leaning On Its Crook

It is the humble heart which finds contentment here,
Where beams in black and white preserve the dreams of yesteryear

Close leaning on its crook, a strong oak dowelled frame,

Our Virgin Queen was on her throne when this a home became;

Each casement sampling air, tied curtains shyly drawn,

Its overhanging tiles..hand out..have every weather borne

To keep the cottage snug throughout each sovereign's reign,

And does it not in modern times kind marks of age retain..?

It is the humble heart, as in those feudal days,

Which will beget from whispering walls a knowledge of their ways,

Their simple rustic joys on farm and garden plot..

That mould of skills round beds and hedge reveals much of their
lot;

The steady horse and wain would rumble to and fro,

Here milkmaids lived who churned rich cream when hours were long and
slow,

When cheeses were more tasty and a loaf had crusty bite,

With nought adulterated, and the serf a happy wight.

It is the humble heart which finds contentment here,

Adopting calmer, gentler pace within its atmosphere,

Outlasting many Halls in stout placidity..

Their fresh-faced bustling housewives roused to polish zealously;

Well-feed their working men, and keep those windows bright,

A cosy hearth with loving warmth when these returned at night..

Now leaning on its crook beside the village green,

With hollyhocks, geraniums..a very pretty scene.

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